I see televisions at best buy, rolling stones in glass-panelled windows. I stop at one and gaze inside, my breath fogging up the glass. My reflection is like a ghost; purple, and vague. Plastic bags in the dumpster, peering over the fire escape, hair hanging about my face like curtains. I dream of green hills and satanic cows, snow that never comes. In two days it shall be Christmas Eve, and my room is bare like a baby's bottom. But it's hey okay, because I am just ridding myself of all the memories that have kept me cycling backwards for the past four years. It's pointless mopping up spilled milk or moaning over curdled cheese. Too long too much for Too many Days. Sweeping the dust under the carpet no longer works, neither do cardboard lists printed on aluminium foil and fake instax photos on the walls. The sparkles settle on the sette, my day here is done.